Unwell
by GoXC
Summary: It's been three months since the incident with Loki, and Clint has all but recovered. He's pushed his teammates away out of fear, but when Darcy shows up on his doorstep, will he let her in? Rated for language. Movie- Comic-verse. Darcy/Clint.
1. Chapter 1

**Unwell**

_Prelude_

* * *

Loki's eyes turned that dark green they did when he was experiencing truly sadistic mirth. There was a playful smirk on his face and he seemed to have gained a full inch from haughtiness alone.

Clint noticed all of this and more in the mere second before the god of mischief opened his mouth.

"Kill them," it was impossible to miss the amusement in his voice. He hadn't bothered to hide it.

Clint willed himself to fight it. Fire burned behind his eyes. But it was pointless, they were tesseract blue and his body wasn't his, it was Loki's. His mind was no longer that of Agent Barton, it was a mindless machine bent on fulfilling the wishes of its master.

Against his will he began walking toward the restrained bodies of his teammates. Thor, though unable to speak, looked exceedingly hurt by his brother's actions. Stark looked somewhat concerned, his eyes darting from side to side. Steve looked ready to play the martyr, perhaps feeling he'd lived long enough already. Bruce was taking deep breaths and Clint kept hoping he would hulk out but he didn't seem nearly angry enough. He seemed like he was trying _not_ to be angry. Natasha was the worst of all, however. There wasn't anger, fear, self-pity, or even fight in her eyes. She just looked disappointed. In Clint.

Loki seemed to sense this and he chuckled darkly. "Begin with the Russian. She does irk me so." He crossed his arms and he looked as though the only thing he was missing was popcorn to enjoy the show.

Clint hated himself so deeply and so thoroughly as he marched toward Natasha. He wanted to die as he felt her neck snap in his hands. He wanted to cry as he saw her lifeless body go limp in her restraints. But he was such a failure, such a mindless robot, that he couldn't even manage that.

He sank to his knees under the weight of what he'd done. It was unbearable. Why couldn't Loki just kill him? It would be a kindness, though kindness didn't seem to be in the god's repertoire.

"Get up," Loki commanded, "Finish the rest of these pathetic mortals."

"No," Clint said. He imagined himself saying it with resolve, with strength, but it came out as a strangled whimper.

Loki strode over and yanked the archer up by the tips of his hair. Clint kept thinking it was strange how he felt so broken. He never remembered feeling anything at all the last time he was under the tesseract's influence.

Loki positioned Clint in front of Stark, who was looking more and more like a cornered animal. Before he knew it, he was holding his bow, with an arrow aimed right at Tony's heart.

"Do it," Loki growled in his ear.

And he did it. Of course he did it. He had no choice in the matter. No strength to physically resist. He was Loki's through and through.

Loki smiled and sauntered past his brother. "We'll save you for last, great son of Odin," he said mockingly.

Thor shot him a glare that would bring a mortal man to his knees for mercy. Loki rolled his eyes.

"Mr. Feelgood or Big Green?" He put a gloved finger to his chin and looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose if we're creative we won't have to choose just one."

Clint found himself unable to do anything except stare into the distance as he awaited his command.

"You know what, I'm feeling old fashioned." Loki produced two handguns out of thin air. "I've heard you're ambidextrous. Let's put it to the test. Two for one."

Clint took a gun in each hand and aimed one each at Bruce and Steve. He cocked them and his fingers rested gently on the triggers.

"Wait," the god of mischief said. "I've changed my mind. I want to savor each of their deaths." He stroked his chin once more. "Shoot that one," he gestured to Bruce, and Clint fired without hesitation.

"I've got something a little more special in mind for Captain Superior." He knelt in front of Steve, who was rather adamant about not looking the god in the eye, and untied his right hand. He grabbed a handgun from Clint and shoved it in the Captain's hand.

"Here we are," Loki stood and smiled. "A little game." He walked a small circle around Clint as he spoke, "It's quite simple, really. Clint, if Steve doesn't kill himself by my count of three, you will do us all a favor and kill _your_self. You will not, however, do so _before_ my three."

The god clapped his hands together in barely restrained glee. "Ready? One..."

Steve lodged a bullet in his head without a moment's thought.

Clint let out a noise like a wounded animal as Loki smiled. "I never doubted him."

The archer kept thinking how he just wanted the whole thing to be over. Then he thought about how selfish that was. Here he was, picking his teammates off one by one and he just wanted to be finished with the whole ordeal.

Whatever Loki had in mind for Thor was likely worse. And it still didn't make sense that he was feeling all of these emotions. He deserved it, yes, but it confused him even in the midst of what was going on.

He glanced at the lifeless, sagging bodies of his teammates and a new wave of sadness washed over him. He felt a hot tear roll down his cheek and he couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. But this was his family now. Or had been.

All that was left was Thor, whose endless bravery was matched only by his foolishness when it came to Earth and its ways. He found himself wondering if he could even be killed. He was a god, wasn't he?

Hope sprang up inside of Clint. Selfish hope that perhaps one member of his family could be saved.

And then Loki produced a sword. "Cut this bastard's head off." His expression was all serious now, as if even he wasn't sure it would work.

Clint fought it with everything he had, but he still felt his traitorous body moving toward Thor, raising the sword. He screwed his eyes shut as he felt the weapon connect and slice through the god's neck with ease.

Clint collapsed to the ground as tears started pouring down his face. He couldn't bear to open his eyes, couldn't bare to see the scene before him. He could only repeat one, basic word: No. It started as a mutter and ended as a scream.

And that was how he woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Unwell**

_Chapter One_

* * *

_And that was how he woke up._

Screaming and writhing in bed. His face wet with tears, his sheets soaked with sweat, his voice hoarse from overuse.

He rushed to the bathroom, as he always did when waking, and shoved his face to the mirror. His shoulders sagged slightly in relief as he saw his familiar grey eyes staring back. No matter how many times he checked, they were never Tesseract blue, but he couldn't stop. It was becoming a compulsion.

He splashed his face with water and stared at his reflection for a moment. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, which wasn't far from the truth. Sure, he had closed his eyes, but sleep implied quality and rest, whereas he had only managed to gain mental and emotional torture.

His lids sagged and there were virtual caverns underneath his tired eyes. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were all but lifeless.

Clint usually recovered very well from missions. He was a master at compartmentalizing. And pretty damn good at his job, if he didn't say so himself. Plus, his early life had practically made him a textbook recruit for any and all "secret" government agencies. He typically enjoyed his job fairly well. He wasn't overjoyed at some of the things they did, but it had its days.

The thing with Loki and the Tesseract, however, had taken a remarkable toll on him. It was to be expected, or so the agency psychologist had said. He had promptly left after she opened with that sentence. How the hell did she know what was to be expected after having your mind invaded by a crazy psycho alien-god?

Fury responded by giving him a month of leave.

That was three months ago.

Of course the first month had really been about trust. The agency simply wasn't sure they could trust him anymore.

And then he realized that they were right. And after Clint stopped trusting himself, things went from bad to worse.

A knock on the door jarred him from his thoughts. They were never a safe place nowadays, anyway.

His teammates and a few agents had been by to check on him over the past several weeks,but he always ran them off with excuses and empty promises.

"Shit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He looked horrible, and he knew it.

He ran to the kitchen, grabbed a few beers from the fridge, popped the tops and poured at least half of each down the drain.

If he scattered them out, maybe whichever nosy individual was at his door now would buy his story of a few drinks with a friend and a hangover.

As he swung the door open he realized that his plan was quite flawed, for it was common knowledge that he had a fairly high tolerance for alcohol.

But it didn't matter, because the person standing there at his doorstep wasn't likely to know that.

Darcy Lewis looked at him and glanced back down at the piece of paper in her hand. "Uh… Clint, right?"

"That's me," he said in a voice tainted with exhaustion.

"Right, okay," she looked slightly relieved to be in the right place. "Stark sent me-"

Clint slammed the door in her face and turned to start gathering beer bottles.

She knocked again. Clint ignored her. She began pounding on the door then and Clint forced a sigh.

He swung the door open forcefully and glared at her. She paused, fist midair, and smiled sheepishly at him.

"That was kind of rude," she said, dropping her hand to her side. "Aren't you gonna invite me in for coffee or…" she nodded her head toward the beer bottles in his hand.

Clint continued glowering at her. His gaze was intensified by the circles under his eyes and his general sour mood.

"Easy on the mean mugging," she said.

"What do you want?"

"Stark sent me to be your personal assistant."

"Well I don't need one, so fuck off." He moved to slam the door, but she stuck her forearm out and stopped it.

"Again, very rude. Just hear me out." Clint stopped trying to crush her arm with the door so she started speaking quickly. "When the crazy alien race invaded, they kinda screwed me over by destroying my place of work. I hit the unemployment line hard, but that shit runs out. Stark said he had one open position that I was perfect for. I jumped on it, walked into his bigass tower this morning, bright-eyed and hopeful, and was handed this." She waved the piece of paper with his address on it around and awaited his reaction.

Clint didn't respond.

"Look, I'm not happy either. I was hoping for professional do-nothing-er. But I really, really need this and I promise I won't bother you. I just need Stark to-"

"Stop," he said. Clint realized he had been too hasty. This could work out for him if he played his cards right.

"Okay," he said.

Darcy looked unsure. "Okay?"

He swung the door wide to let her enter.

"If you agree to my terms," he said lowly as she stepped past him.

She paused to look up at him and he immediately felt that she was too close. He worried that she could see inside his mind, see the chaos and the anxiety.

He turned to close the door, ran a hand through his hair, and tried to remember the last time he showered.

He couldn't.

* * *

When he returned from setting the beer bottles in the sink, Darcy had made herself at home on his couch. She was curiously, if not blatantly, glancing around his home and he could see the wheels turning in her mind.

It looked about as shitty as he did. Clearly the crazy was invading every aspect of his life. He suddenly wondered if this was a bad idea.

"Well?" Darcy's voice distracted him from his thoughts. "Your 'terms,'" She did air quotes around the last word.

Clint hesitated. This could go either way, really. Darcy could cooperate and get everyone off his back, or she could realize how screwed up he is and let everyone else in on it.

If anything, he was a risk taker. "It's simple. You report back to Stark exactly what I tell you. In return, I don't give a shit what you do when you're supposed to be _assisting_ me."

"Depends," she said, crossing one leg over the other with the air of a person who has room to negotiate. She didn't. "What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding _anything_."

She looked at him like he had a neon sign over his head that said: Liar.

"You can either accept my terms, or you can leave." His expression was serious, if not grim, but Darcy seemed unfazed.

She smiled slightly, "You look like shit, by the way."

Clint didn't respond, but he didn't need to.

"I'll make you some tea," she continued.

"Tea?" he blurted, confused.

"Yeah, I roomed with this British girl in college. She was always calling our dorm a flat and I was like, 'We'll see how flat it is when I get all my shit on the floor.' Anyway, she really turned me on to the wonders of hot tea."

Clint still felt fantastically off kilter. "I don't... have any tea."

"It's cool. I always carry some in my purse."

And that was when Clint had his first real panic attack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Unwell**

_Chapter Two_

* * *

_And that was when Clint had his first real panic attack._

Clint stumbled and fell to his knees as panic shot through him like a bolt of electricity. He clutched his chest, that now felt as though it was on fire. His heartbeat roared in his ears and there was a loud breathy sound closing in on him. He faintly noticed Darcy stooped over him, hand on his back, asking him something, but all he could process was that he was dying. He was about to die.

And Jesus Christ was he crazy, because there was no way this was happening. None of this was real. He was delusional. He was hallucinating. Darcy wasn't real, it was too bizarre.

He was crazy and he was about to die.

Darcy shoved a paper bag in his face and he realized the noise overtaking him was the sound of him hyperventilating.

He breathed into the bag, not knowing if a hallucination could give him a real bag, but not caring, because in that moment he didn't really want to die. In. Out. In. Out.

After a few more minutes, his heart rate slowed and the panic ebbed away. He caught his breath and the sensation that he was dying faded, only to be replaced by the sensation that he was a sad and crazy grown man curled up on the living room floor breathing into a paper bag.

Darcy was now seated next to him, and he realized that she was rubbing small circles on his back. "I guess that answers the question of what you're hiding."

"No," he choked out. He moved to stand up. He needed to feel in control, or at least less feeble. But the room swayed and he settled for sitting on his bare feet. "That's never happened before."

He wanted to ask if she was real. He needed to know he wasn't crazy.

"Maybe I should take you to the hospital."

"No!" he shouted a little too quickly. "I'm fine," he amended more quietly.

"Or maybe I should call Stark."

"Absolutely not."

"Well, clearly you're the picture of health, so I guess you're right." She stood and crumpled the discarded paper bag into a ball. "I can see why Stark sent me."

Clint bounded up from the floor and leveled a glare at Darcy, ignoring the pounding in his head. "Look, I don't need you, or anyone else to babysit me, so you can _fuck off_."

"Great then, I'll just pop off and tell Tony and the rest of your oh so curious teammates that you're not sleeping and you're having panic attacks and God knows what else."

Clint clamped his hand around Darcy's throat in an instant and squeezed. He directed all of his rage and anxiety into that hand, ignoring a gasping Darcy as she clawed at her throat. It didn't matter, he told himself, she wasn't real. If he just got rid of her, he would be better. Things would be better. Squeeze.

After a moment she stopped struggling and just stared at him with huge, brown eyes as he literally squeezed the life out of her. They were pleading and they looked so real and Clint was so confused and he didn't even know why he was choking her anymore.

He let go abruptly and fled to his room. He closed the door behind him and prayed that Darcy, real or otherwise, would leave and never come back.

Because he was right from the start. He couldn't be trusted.

* * *

Darcy collapsed into a heap on the floor, coughing and spluttering as her body once again received oxygen. Her lungs burned and she rubbed at her throat, sure she was going to have a bruise.

She had never really spent a lot of time around any of the Avengers, but she didn't remember Clint as being quite so unstable. If anything, she remembered thinking Natasha was a touch scary.

She knew there was _something_ going on, Stark had said as much when he sent her to spy on Clint, she just didn't know what. No one really did, that was the whole purpose of her new "job." And he sure as hell didn't mention that she was going to be in _mortal_ danger. She had had enough of that to last a lifetime.

She sighed, she really needed to quit hanging around these people. They were so not good for her health. Damn Stark and his bribes.

She pushed herself up off the floor and walked to the kitchen. Tea didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. The last thing that guy needed was caffeine.

She opened the refrigerator out of simple curiosity. There was one bottle of beer, a container of ketchup, and a carton of milk that had expired two weeks ago.

The freezer revealed four ice packs and a very frosted carton of chocolate ice cream. Darcy guessed it was also quite old.

She pulled out her cellphone and ordered a pizza, then she went to the door that Clint had disappeared behind and knocked softly on it.

"Please leave," he pleaded.

She opened the door and found him sitting on the floor with his back against the bed.

"Please. Just stay away from me." He clawed at his hair with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

She ignored him and moved to sit beside him, but he scrambled to his feet and crossed the room.

He looked at her with fear in his stormy, grey eyes. "I don't want to hurt you again. I'm sorry. You have to leave. I'm sorry. I don't…" he clutched his head again, like there was a physical pain there. "I can't…"

"You're okay," she said quietly. She wanted to sound more sure of herself but the truth was, she wasn't equipped to handle this. She didn't have a clue what to say, much less what to do. She just knew that Clint was scared right now, and that was a human emotion that she could attempt to deal with.

She inched closer to him, "I'm not going to leave you," she said. "You're okay," she repeated. Maybe if she kept saying it, he would believe her. When she made it over to him, she realized that she wasn't sure why she had been moving toward him in the first place. Was she going to touch him and risk him turning on her again or freaking out?

"I opened your fridge," she said. It was the first thing that came to her mind. "I thought _I_ was bad about grocery shopping." Clint still had his eyes closed and his head in his hands, but he wasn't moving away from her. "I thought maybe you were hungry so I ordered a pizza for us. I wasn't sure what kind you liked so I got cheese, because everyone likes cheese right? I mean all other kinds of pizza have cheese so it stands to reason that everyone technically likes cheese pizza." It felt like she was rambling, but she was good at that and Clint's breathing had slowed.

She took a deep breath and felt herself relax a little. "I shouldn't have threatened you like that. I'm sorry."

She felt his anxiety level go back up and she immediately regretted mentioning it. She reached out and touched his arm, hoping to bring the situation back under control, but he flinched hard.

"Please leave," he repeated. "Please. Please. Please," he kept saying.

She backed away and felt a pang in her chest at seeing such a great Avenger reduced to this. She remembered the first time she'd seen him. It was at SHIELD when she was being debriefed after the whole fiasco with Thor and Loki. She'd passed him in the hallway and he had looked her up and down - checking her out, he left no doubt - and smirked. And Jesus alive did her insides turn to jelly. She had dreams about those gorgeous blue-grey eyes and that mischievous smirk for weeks.

And then she got over herself. I mean, he was a superhero and she was clearly fangirling and it simply wasn't an attractive state to be in. But she'd be a lying dog if she didn't admit that a huge part of the reason she was even here to begin with was that damn smirk in that damn hallway.

And she decided the world would be a sad place if it never saw a smirking Clint again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Unwell**

_Chapter Three_

* * *

The pizza guy came and went. Darcy tried to coax Clint out to eat at least seven times. She opened the pizza box at least eight times without eating any, determined to wait on Clint.

She walked his apartment as she waited, noted the disorganization. Admittedly there wasn't a lot of stuff in Clint's place such that it was strewn everywhere. It was more a feeling of disuse. It was like he hadn't really touched anything in months except for what was in his bedroom. She saw his archery equipment piled in the corner, along with a few guns and knives, what she mentally referred to as his SHIELD gear. It was all topped with a visible layer of dust.

The couch had a crumpled blanket on the end, like perhaps Clint had made it there at some point and curled up.

The kitchen was, of course, in a sad state. There were a few old takeout boxes on the counter and a mountain of dishes in the sink. They looked to have been parked there for sometime as they were all growing some sort of mold. Darcy crinkled her nose, she wasn't really one to dive into a mess of that sort, but she resolved to get around to it, if only for Clint's wellbeing.

She moved a few holsters and sat in a chair. Clint had no television. Instead there was some sort of workbench where one might have an entertainment center. It was littered with arrow tips and shafts along with equipment that was pretty foreign to Darcy. There were knives and a sharpening stone as well as a gun cleaning kit. It was all completely dusty and looked like it hadn't been touched in ages.

It seemed sad, somehow, the neglect. It was so wrong. Agent Barton should be running missions, perfecting his shot, at least hiding in a perch somewhere aggravating Stark. Instead he was locked in his bedroom in a self deprecating stupor. Darcy felt a sharp pang of sadness in her chest and hugged a pillow to make it stop.

Finally, when the pizza was good and cold and the sun was sinking below the horizon, she grabbed two pieces and marched into Clint's bedroom.

She plopped down on the floor beside him, where he was apparently staring at something quite intriguing -though perhaps not visible to the naked eye- on the floor, and shoved the pizza in his face.

"You know, you could've just said you preferred your pizza cold," Darcy said.

Clint didn't move.

"Look, I'm starving to _death_ and I refuse to eat until you at least take one tiny little bird-sized bite and I'm seriously never having kids because if it's this much work to get them to eat vegetables I'd just serve the damn things candy all of the time."

Clint turned to look at her so abruptly that she nearly dropped his pizza. He was looking at her like he'd only now noticed her presence and she realized that she was just a little bit anxious about what he was going to do next.

"Darcy?" his voice was hoarse and it cracked in the middle of her name.

"Yeah," she took his hand and placed the slice in it, trying to act as normal as possible under the circumstances. She didn't know what was going on in his mind, but he looked confused.

He stared at the pizza like it was a foreign object.

"I thought you left," he said.

She found that hard to believe considering she had asked him every fifteen minutes for the last two hours if he wanted to come out and eat.

"I told you I wasn't leaving."

He looked up at her then. His hair had grown and it was hanging in his eyes. He looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks. He seemed old and tired, but the expression in his eyes was somehow young. "Why?"

"Cause," she said. "Now eat your pizza."

Clint took a small bite and Darcy's insides did a happy dance. She devoured her piece in 2.7 seconds.

Clint offered her his piece and she shook her head.

"But I don't like cheese," he said.

Darcy stared at him a second and then noticed a tiny smile blossoming on the side of his mouth.

"Liar," she bumped him with her shoulder, "Everyone likes cheese."

* * *

Clint could see the relief in Darcy's eyes. He just needed her to think he was okay. He just needed her to leave before he went to sleep.

Sleep. He craved it so desperately, yet the thought of closing his eyes made him sick.

He forced himself to take another bite.

Darcy was smiling at him, but he couldn't bear to look at her. Not when the red and blue band around her neck was a fresh reminder of how bad things had gotten. Why she was still here was beyond fathomable.

They weren't friends, weren't even acquaintances. He had seen her a few times and that was it.

Stark must have offered her quite a bit of money. There was no other explanation.

He needed to know what she was going to tell Tony. If he was screwed, he wanted to know now, and not when people with straightjackets and needles showed up at his door.

"About Tony-"

She shook her head quickly, "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell him anything."

Guilt choked his next words, "Your neck."

She shrugged, "Scarves are in."

"I'm…" Sorry seemed inadequate, but what else did he have to offer?

"It's fine," she smiled at him again and he averted his eyes. He didn't deserve to have anyone smile at him. He was a black hole of pain and suffering, he always had been.

She stayed until he had finished his piece of pizza and then she got to her feet. "Will you be alright?"

He nodded.

"I'll be back tomorrow with some groceries."

When Clint didn't say anything, she gave him one last gentle touch on the shoulder, and then left.

Clint let out a relieved breath. Then he sniffed his shirt. God, he really needed to shower.

* * *

Darcy sat in her car and tried not to cry. She had been put in an awful position. How could she keep her promise to Stark and Clint at the same time? It was impossible. Tony expected to know what was going on with Clint and she knew he wasn't going to buy that the archer was fine and dandy. At the same time she'd promised Clint and she wasn't going to get anywhere with him if she lied.

She let out a frustrated groan.

For now, she would just avoid Stark, and if necessary, buy some time. A few hours with Clint wasn't really enough to make a fair judgement anyway, she convinced herself. She'd just tell Tony the same thing.

But she knew that excuse wouldn't work forever. Eventually something would have to give and a promise would have to be broken. But Darcy couldn't decide now. It would simply have to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Unwell**

_Chapter Four_

* * *

Clint rolled over roughly and smacked his head against something hard.

"Shit," he muttered, sitting up quickly. "Shit," he repeated more solemnly, realizing that he had fallen asleep in the bathtub. Again. And the something hard he had hit his head on was the side of the porcelain tub.

It wasn't that he had fallen asleep while taking a bath. It was just that he had fallen asleep while in the bathtub. For the simple fact that at night, when he was tired and his thoughts were churning and scraping at the inside of his mind, he could somehow find a bit of clarity in the tub.

He groaned as he stood up. His body did not take kindly to being folded into a child-sized bathtub for several hours.

Still, it was better than waking up sweating and screaming, immersed in a nightmare.

He moved to step out, trying to work the kinks out of his back when he noticed his notebook. It was lying with several ripped out pages littering the bathtub and floor. They were covered almost entirely with frantic scribbling. _Loki. God. Mind. Alien. Tesseract. King. Blue. Coming. Coming. Coming. _

Even now Clint couldn't make sense of them, he doubted anyone could. Perhaps the clarity he thought he had was ill-founded.

Angry at himself he snatched up most of them and threw them in the wastebasket. He resolved to take a match to them, but before he could manage, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Darcy, he thought. He wasn't sure why his reflection made him think of her. Maybe because it looked somewhat sane. He had obviously showered and shaved last night before he'd spiraled into insanity.

But he still found himself questioning whether the previous day's events were real. Had Darcy really shown up at his house, offered him tea, nursed him through a panic attack? Had he really tried to choke her to death? Or had he been right to attempt to murder a figment of his addled brain. Was yesterday even yesterday at all?

It scared him for the first time, because he realized that he honestly couldn't tell reality from his mind. It was a frightening prospect, to be trapped inside his demented imagination.

His thoughts started spiraling out of control as he hastened to make sense of something, anything; To be sure of any fact at all. He rushed from the bathroom, searching for proof of Darcy's visit. His eyes landed on the pizza box and he ripped it open, nearly toppling it to the floor. Inside was a nearly untouched cheese pizza, only two pieces missing. He sagged with relief against the kitchen counter.

At least for now he could tell himself that he wasn't _so_ crazy, that he would be okay.

* * *

It was afternoon when Darcy finally arrived back at Clint's apartment. She kicked lightly at the door, unable to properly knock for the armful of groceries she bore. Clint seemed much better as he greeted her, clean and fresh shaven. There was a weariness in the eyes hiding just behind his too long hair, but Darcy smiled at him all the same as she squeezed by, letting Clint relieve her of her burden.

He sat on a barstool as she unpacked the bags. "I can see why you're wasting away. When's the last time you actually had food in here?"

"Mrs. Greene down the hall brings me food sometimes. She brought something over this morning." He gestured vaguely toward the counter.

Darcy looked, but saw nothing on the counter except the pizza box from the day previous. She opened the refrigerator to the same sad state it had been in yesterday.

"Did you eat it already?"

"What? No." He stood and walked around to the kitchen, rested his hands on the empty counter behind Darcy. "It was here..."

"Maybe it was earlier in the week and you forgot," she suggested.

Clint frowned, "Yeah," he conceded, but he didn't look convinced.

Suddenly, he turned his head sharply toward the door. "I'll get it," he said.

Darcy's forehead crinkled. She hadn't heard anything, but she hadn't really been paying attention. She could've missed it. She had been too busy thinking about Clint's confused look.

She opened a few cabinets, continued putting groceries away. After a few minutes, she realized Clint had yet to return, or even speak, so she called out to him, "Clint, who was it?"

No answer. She rounded the corner from the kitchen to find him staring open mouthed at the door. When she got closer, she saw that he was trembling, but to her confusion, there was no one at the door.

"Clint?" she gently touched his shoulder and he jumped.

"L-Loki," he stuttered.

Darcy frowned, stuck her head out the door and looked both ways. She saw nothing but an empty hallway.

"He was here?" she asked with more skepticism than doubt.

But Clint was still staring at the empty doorway.

"Why are you here?" he asked. There was a tremor in his voice.

"Clint, we have an agreement, remember?" Darcy was beginning to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"What do you want from me?" he continued.

Darcy refused to believe that he wasn't talking to her, but the facts were staring her in the face. She was behind Clint, who was adamantly facing the empty doorway.

"No!" he screamed suddenly and yanked Darcy hard by the arm, pulling her into his bedroom and shutting the door.

* * *

Darcy was staring at him with barely restrained horror and he couldn't blame her. Why was Loki here? And why did he want to hurt her? Clint felt helpless, huddled behind a flimsy wooden door with the god of mischief on the other side. He was powerless to protect her.

And then he had a horrible realization.

He was just as dangerous as Loki. His eyes could turn tesseract blue at any moment. Loki needn't come in here himself, he could just use Clint to carry out his plans, the same way he did every time Clint closed his eyes.

Darcy was firing questions at him but he couldn't hear her, he couldn't think. She was in danger in here and out there and with him and with Loki. He clutched his head and pulled at his hair. What could he do?

"Clint!" Darcy's cry finally sliced through his frantic thoughts and his gaze shot up to meet hers. "Calm down," she said.

The archer noticed he was bordering on hyperventilation, his heart was pounding against his ribcage. But he needed to get away from her before it was too late. "Stay here," he ordered with more confidence than he felt, and went back into the living room, shutting the door closed tightly behind him.

He eyed his bow, sitting in the corner in its case. The lid was dusty from disuse. He hadn't shot the thing in months, he hadn't trusted himself to. The last thing he needed when Loki took his mind back was a weapon in his hands.

He looked at the still open door. His thoughts flickered to running, to putting as much distance between himself and Darcy as possible. But could he really leave her here with Loki?

He warred with himself, trying to make sense of the situation. He heard the bedroom door creak open and he panicked, jumping into action. He grabbed a knife and turned his back to the bedroom door.

"Stay inside!" he hissed.

"Clint," she sounded like she was pleading with him and he snuck a glance at her. She had her head stuck out a crack in the door. "Please stop," she choked on her words, "You're scaring me."

He shook his head frantically. He was protecting her, couldn't she see that?

* * *

As soon as Clint turned his head, Darcy fished her phone from her pocket with trembling hands. She knew better than to call the police or 911, but she was genuinely scared. More scared than she'd been with Clint's hand around her throat.

Her thumb hovered over Stark's contact information. Tony was a go get em type of guy. While great to fight alongside in battle, his act first, consider consequences later attitude meant that compassion was often put on the back burner.

No, she needed someone with more tact. Moving her thumb down, she jabbed it into the next contact's name and held the phone to her ear.

"Hello," Steve's voice sounded pleasantly on the other end.

"Steve," she fought a tremor in her voice, "I need your help."

His voice immediately flowed with concern. "Darcy what's going on?" His words were precise and it was clear that he expected an assessment of the situation.

But all Darcy could do was choke out Clint's name as she watched him dart frantically around the living room with a knife in his hand.


End file.
